Damn His Leg
by selfdeprecatingdoctor
Summary: Dr. John Watson learns from his flatmate that he doesn't have a psychosomatic limp. But did he know it all along? A John Watson story about finding acceptance and love in the least likely place. Not to mention a new blog entry for John that is sure to be a hit.
1. Chapter 1

…Somewhere in Afghanistan 2009…

"Well Watson, what do you plan to do? I know. Everyone will know soon enough. It's despicable."

"The only thing that's despicable Branson, is you." John's face settled into an angry line.

"Give it to me or I tell. Sholto won't stand for this, you know. You'll suffer consequences."

"You won't get what you want. You can threaten me all you like. I'm not giving you anything and damn you if you think you saying anything matters. I am a medical doctor and I will not lose my integrity." Branson leaned over the stretcher between them, nearly touching his forehead to John's.

"Is your integrity really worth your dignity?" John slammed his hand on the stretcher, denting the paper pulled taut over it.

"Yes, it is." His smile gleamed angrily in the glare of the surgical light overhead. He thrust his hand off the stretcher rolling it into Branson's groin. The infantry man doubled over with a growl.

"You'll regret this, Watson, don't think you won't!" John chuckled as he strolled out of the room, leaving Branson in a pained lump next to the stretcher.

...

"Your shoulder is healed Doctor Watson, why would you be discharged?"

"Can't you see," Watson scoffed, "My hand, it shakes, I…I can't do surgery with a trembling hand." He tried to look strong. "And I'm afraid the gun shot in my shoulder has adversely affected my leg, causing a limp. It seems I'm just not suited to be an army doctor any longer, sir."

James Sholto thought it over for a full minute before dropping his head and rubbing his brow between his forefinger and thumb. "It pains me to say this, but I'm afraid you're right Watson, I can't have you attending injured soldiers if you will risk harming them further. After all, the worst thing we could possibly end up with is more dead soldiers in this hellish war.

"Thank you, sir." Watson pushed himself up out of the chair in the commander's office leaning mostly on his unaffected leg as he reached for his cane.

"And Watson." Sholto began to add. John turned now with his cane already doing the extra work that his leg could no longer do. "Take it easy when you're out. Don't get into any trouble."

"Of course, sir." John straitened up as much as he could while saluting his commander. Sholto stood as well, mirroring his salute.

"Farewell, John Watson."

…

1 year later, London, England

…

"For the last time, I DO NOT HAVE TRUST ISSUES."

"Doctor Watson, you continually read what I am writing in my notes when we're talking, you have trouble sleeping and keep a loaded pistol in your side drawer, tell me again what do you think is wrong with your leg?"

"It's a nerve issue coalescing from the gunshot in the shoulder. The nerve was destroyed and has affected the usefulness of my leg."

"John, you are a medical doctor. You know that doesn't happen. It is just what you are using to cope. Why won't you trust me when I tell you that it is a psychosomatic limp?!"

"Have we reached the point where we just yell at each other now? I've told you many times and I will continue to tell you, IT IS NERVE DAMAGE!"

"Doctor Watson." The therapist looked at John with her head tilted and pity pouring over her features. "I can't help you if you don't trust me."

John looked up and made a small harrumph sound turning his lips down into a frown. He took a sharp breath in then yanked himself out of the chair. Turning to look down at the therapist sitting shocked beside him, he whispered, "Then I guess you can't help me." Wobbling off the rug, his feet hit the hard floors and she could hear the clatter of his cane as he limped his way out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

…

6 months later, 221B Baker Street, London, England

…

"Sherlock, please put the crossbow down."

"John, I'm bored. Please don't interrupt my being bored with your incessant pleas."

"You're going to shoot someone, maybe even yourself. Please put it down. Actually, sod it, shoot yourself see what I care."

"Now John, it's not nice to insist a friend shoot himself with a crossbow. If one were to insist on a suicide method for a friend, the least you could do would be to demand a bullet through the head, less suffering and a swift death. Much nicer. Or even a jump off a high building, a pleasant free fall would be a much nicer way for a friend to go."

"Put much thought into this have you?" John sat down at the table, opening his laptop. As he pulled up his blog he realized it had been a few days since he had transcribed a case. His readers must be getting bored.

"Well putting another boring case on there isn't going to peak their interest." Sherlock seemed to answer a question in John's head about increasing the readership.

"How did you…"

"John, you were thinking, it was distracting. You need a personal interest story. Emotions seem to interest people, as well as human contact. Heaven knows why anyone would want to read a thing like that. I still can't believe no one likes my tobacco ash post. Apparently, deduction is less interesting than a budding relationship between two flat mates. I simply don't understand the common wealth and why they don't find hair classification riveting. _We want to hear more about Mrs. Hudson's drug dealing._ Humans are intolerable." Sherlock continued to go off on a tangent pacing around the room with a crossbow pitched over his shoulder.

"Wait, shut up."

"So, it's okay when you say it but when I say it at the murder scene of a mime, it's suddenly "not good."

"No Sherlock, shut up, what did you say before?" John peered over his laptop screen at the strange man now standing on top of his black and silver chair.

"About Mrs. Hudson drug dealing. John catch up, her husband used to peddle drugs in Florida."

"No, you git, about flat mates."

"I said if you want to peak your readers' interests, you should give them the story they want to hear."

John leaned in disbelief over his laptop, before chuckling incredulously. "About a budding relationship between flat mates. I suppose you mean," John paused then motioned with his fingers the two of them. Sherlock nodded, giving him the 'you're just now figuring this out, if must be so dull in that slow head of yours' look.

"Well that's a great idea." John rocked back in his chair folding his hands behind his head. "Oh. Except it isn't, because I'm not gay, in case you hadn't noticed."

Sherlock stepped on the back of his chair and pushed it to the ground, making the chair land on its back gracefully as he hopped off. The crossbow was swung off his shoulder and lobbed on the desk, nearly shattering a cup of tea with some floating body part in it.

"No, I hadn't noticed." Sherlock leaned against the desk adjacent from where John sat now pushed away from his computer. The detective pushed his palms together and rested his lips on the side of his long and slender index fingers.

"What do you mean. You hadn't noticed?" John worriedly looked toward his observant friend. Fearing the next batch of deductions Sherlock Holmes was about to cook up.

Sherlock took one long suck of air in, and John started praying in his head.

"Since you've returned from Afghanistan you've gone through 7 therapists. It seems you get a new one every time they bring up one specific thing. Don't worry we'll get back to that later. Then there's the problem with the girlfriends. 12 to be exact. All in 6 months time. Please don't insist I name them. I don't remember, I just know there were 12, each one less memorable than the last. None of which you had anything in common with. And with your bedroom above me I've assumed that each was dumped after only one sexual encounter, or they dumped you when they realized how uninterested you were. Then there's the thing about the therapists, yes we're back to that now. You got a different therapist every time they mentioned a psychosomatic limp, which you claim to be nerve damage. You are of course entirely wrong, but I don't have to tell you that, you are very well aware. But it's not a psychosomatic either is it, John? Who found out? Was it someone in the army with you? They threatened to tell, but why?" Sherlock began thrumming his fingers on his chin. "Oh, they wanted something. Something only you could give them. No not like that, John. It was a drug. Morphine, I bet, though any opiate would do. Get a little bit of a high then sleep through all the bombs and sandstorms. But you wouldn't give it to him. He threatened to tell someone. One of the high-ranking officers that doesn't stand for something so… taboo in his infantry."

John shifted in his seat, trying not to make eye contact with the greyish blue portals to his past sitting in Sherlock's eye sockets.

"This had to have happened some time after your shoulder injury. You were recovered, your hand shook but you could make it stop when you needed to." Sherlock thrust himself up so he was no longer leaning on the desk he shook his finger toward John, while staring off in the distance like he could see the medic's tent in Afghanistan right there by the couch.

"You needed a way out. It would be much better to be discharged with an injury than to be thrown from the military for your orientation." Sherlock snapped out of his reverie and looked at the walking stick leaning against John's armrest. "The cane. You must have seen it in the medic's tent after being confronted by the man who wanted morphine. You knew all about PTSD and how it could affect the body, so you started limping. Claiming nerve damage. You knew that everyone would think it was a psychosomatic limp caused by your horrid experience with the gunshot. You wanted them to think that. To see how stubborn you were that there was nothing wrong with your head. It made you look strong. You must have been so scared."

John continued to slump his head down. Sherlock, still smiling after his deduction-fest victory, realized that John was crying when he saw a few wet dots splattered on his friend's jeans.

"John?" Sherlock spoke cautiously. Realizing that perhaps his observations were a bit harsh.

John cleared his throat and sniffed in then launched himself up. His face looked beaten and angry. He stepped closer to Sherlock puffing his chest out and looking up at his confused friend.

Sherlock, now worried that he had insulted a trained soldier, within an arm's length from a crossbow, stood rigidly. "John, I'm sorry. It was just a guess, I'm sure none of that happened to you. It was just me being, well, and idiot. Blubbering on like Mrs. Hudson does with her sister."

John put a finger up to silence Sherlock. The anger melted from his face as he whimpered out, "How did you accept it?"

Sherlock sighed in relief, his eyes drooped sadly. "I didn't have to. It's who I am. I don't need to explain it any more than I need to explain why I enjoy solving crimes or doing experiments. It's part of who I am."

John laughed lightly.

"What is it, John?"

"I've never heard you give, actual, useful advice in any situation."

Sherlock hesitantly hooked his finger under John's chin and pulled it up, "You are not just any situation."

John paused and with a joyfully sad twinkle in his eye, he reached up and grabbed Sherlock by his ruffled dark hair and pulled him down into a desperate kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

….

6 minutes later, Sherlock's bedroom, 221B Baker Street, London, England

…..

John and Sherlock had somehow managed to stumble their way into the bedroom without once removing their lips from each other's. When at last they disconnected their mouths, Sherlock began pulling the hem of John's chunky fisherman's sweater over his head. Sherlock breathed down John's neck as he gracefully unbuttoned the plaid shirt his flat mate was wearing. With his bare chest now on full display, Sherlock gave him a lustful grin.

John's breath grew heavier as Sherlock knelt to undo John's belt. He peeked up and John nodded down to him that he was okay. Once John was only in his boxers he stepped back for a moment to catch his breath. His heart was pounding much harder than it ever had when he was in the throes of making love to a woman.

"If it makes it easier for you, I can take my own clothes off." Sherlock suggested quietly, realizing John was having a bit of a difficult time getting used to this amount of intimacy with another man.

"No, no," John shook his head aggressively, "I want to do it." He took a large step forward and slowly reached his hands out toward Sherlock's broad chest. His hand began to shake when he tried to undo the first button. He bit his lip and attempted to cease the shaking, with a frustrated growl, his hand continued to tremble.

It was then that Sherlock brought his own hand up and placed it over John's. With John's hand subtly stopping its tremors. Sherlock finished unbuttoning his shirt. It hung open down the middle and John's mouth gaped.

"What are you so surprised about, you hadn't expected me to have breasts or anything, did you?"

John laughed before composing himself and responding, "No, I just hadn't expected you to be so… muscular."

"Oh, well I suppose I should say thank you." Sherlock released John's hand and stepped back admiring John in only his red boxers. "You look quite healthy yourself."

John smiled at Sherlock's attempt to offer a sincere compliment. "Oh, come here." He pulled him in and nearly ripped the light lavender shirt hanging tightly over Sherlock's shoulders. He began fumbling with Sherlocks tight black slacks, as Sherlock spoke.

"Oh, John I should warn you that I'm um not." He was a moment too late as John yanked Sherlock's trousers down around his ankles, and looked up to see a welcome surprise.

"Wearing underpants was how I had planned to finish that but it would seem that the observation is useless now. If I may apologize for springing this on you. Oh heavens. That was a terrible choice of words. John if you're not ready for this, I completely understand, I am so sorry."

Sherlock looked genuinely embarrassed for the first time since John had met him. His high pale cheekbones flushed a dull rose color. John looked up at Sherlock's humiliated face. Then he looked straight ahead at his well-groomed groin.

"Get on the bed." John's lips turned into a straight line.

"What did you say?" Sherlock opened his eyes which he had closed in focus after his unfortunate mistake in going commando.

"Sherlock Holmes, get on the bed." He pointed strictly at the slippery, silk sheets spread out before them. Sherlock, stepping out of his trousers, obeyed John's command. Laying with his back spread on the mattress. John stepped to the end of the bed then began crawling up towards Sherlock. He slowly spread Sherlock's legs and traced his fingers up the inside of his thighs. Sherlock's cock grew nearly twice the size in a split second when John began to lean down towards it.

…. 6 seconds later. Sherlock's Bed, Sherlock's Bedroom 221B Baker Street, London, England…

"John, you don't have to if you're not ready for this. It can be a lot to take in."

"Jesus Sherlock, I can't tell if you're really good at talking dirty or just really bad under sexual pressure. Now calm down. I want to try it."

Sherlock took a deep breath in as John's tongue first made contact with the bottom tip of his cock. He nearly lost all ability to take in oxygen as John's mouth consumed almost the entirety of it. Sherlock made a mental note to ask where John had trained his gag reflex so well. John seemed to know exactly when to speed up and when to slow down to keep Sherlock constantly out of breath and all the while wanting more. John slowed way down and traced the very tip of his tongue all the way up the bottom of the shaft to the very tip. Sherlock shuttered and orgasmed, tightly gripping the silk sheets.

As Sherlock gasped for air, he heard John swallow. He threw his head down to see John's face covered in cum. "John, I wasn't ready for it. I should have warned you." John licked his lips removing a small splotch of salty white. Sherlock shuttered again and felt a pang in his groin.

"Sherlock, I swear you are the most, stubborn, apathetic, human-ish being on planet Earth. Then we get in this bedroom and all you can do is apologize. I may not know exactly what it's like to be a homosexual, but God, I want you. I want every part of you. I want to taste you, lick you, kiss you, and yes sometimes I want to put your amazingly large, hard penis in my mouth until I gag and drown in cum." John chuckled and shook his head. "I never thought I would say that sentence in my entire life, but I stand by it. Now stop apologizing and show me what accepting it looks like."

Sherlock was speechless for a moment after John's speech about how much he wanted him. Could someone actually desire him like that, knowing what kind of person he was. John knew him best of all, knew every quirk he had, yet here he was saying he wanted to know even more about him. Sherlock smiled his actual smile. Not his sociopath smile.

"What will you have me do?" He smirked at John.

John was undecided, he had just given a speech about how he had accepted himself as he was and wanted to explore it more, but he had no clue where to start. It was then that Sherlock leaned, his cheekbone nearly cut the side of John's face as he whispered in his ear.

"How about you take that fantastic cock and shove it up my arse so hard I'll be moaning your name if I sit the wrong way on my chair tomorrow."

John's mouth dropped open and Sherlock brushed his lips against his cheek before turning back to whisper in his ear again.

"Close your mouth my dear Watson, keep it tight for next time." He gently caressed John's ear lobe with his tongue before pulling away.

John's cock was pounding and his erection was so hard his boxers were forming an isosceles triangle, which Sherlock couldn't help but point out as he reached over into his side drawer. John heard a few strange shuffling noises, a mousetrap snap, then Sherlock rolled back over with a tub of lube.

"For what purpose, do you possess an industrial sized tub of lube?" John questioned as Sherlock pulled him in closer by grabbing his hips then unscrewed the lid of the lube.

"For science!" He shouted as he glopped it on his hand and began thoroughly rubbing down John's boner. After a seemingly excessive amount was rubbed onto John's cock, Sherlock flipped over and stuck his bum in the air, wagging it a little side to side to tease his slightly nervous lover.

John bit his lip looking down at Sherlock's magnificently sculpted back side. He looked away for a moment to regain his will, it would be quite embarrassing if he blew his load before he even entered him.

"Are you ready?" John asked, unsure how to know if Sherlock was turned on enough or needed some kind of loosening up.

"John, if you wait a second longer, I'm going to positively lose my mind." John clasped his hands on each one of Sherlocks cheeks pulling them apart slightly. Then he gripped his own cock with one hand, almost forgetting the insane amount of lube on it. He used his hand to guide it into Sherlock. He quivered at how tight the hole was. It squeezed his length in the most pleasurable way. He pushed it all the way in and rested for a moment to completely come to terms with how amazing he felt here. Not just here as in, with his lubed-up cock in his flat mates arse hole, but here sharing a passionate moment with, what could end up being the love of his life.

"Please John, I insist that you fuck me hard. I want you. I need you to go as hard as you can. This feeling is almost better than solving a case."

John slowly pulled out leaving just the tip in as he repeated, " _almost better than solving a case?"_ He teased the tip in and out, Sherlock was struggling to breath. "Almost? Sherlock I'm about to cum all inside of you because I've never felt better than when my cock is being squeezed by your amazing and firm bum and you think this feels ALMOST better than a case?" John, a little angry that he apparently enjoyed this more than his partner, shoved his cock all the way in. His balls were smashed up against Sherlocks as he grunted with effort. Sherlock let out a pleasured moan and reached one hand out to grab the bed frame.

John drew almost all the way out again. He reached down and took Sherlock's cock in his hand, slowly wacking it off as he thrust again, burying his erection in Sherlock. He let out a whine of approval, "Even closer to better than a case."

"You bastard," John grunted as he withdrew again and repeated the motion then continued to thrust his length all the way in and all the way out. All the while stroking Sherlock's impossibly hard cock. After a minute of especially hard fucking he slowed down and opted for a more gentle approach. As he slowed his thrusts down, Sherlock's breath caught and got faster. He was breathing rapidly and John felt his cock shudder as Sherlock orgasmed, coating John's hand and the silk sheets in white.

John let go of Sherlock's cock and focused on his rhythm. He slid in and out quickly, rocking his hips. He looked down at Sherlock with the top half of his body splayed on the sheets, spent and glistening with sweat. His arse was still sticking up for John to continue, Sherlock's eyes were closed and he was no where near catching his breath. It took John only one minute of watching Sherlock lay there for him to get a warm feeling throughout his body. He realized that warm feeling was the feeling of finishing. He was gasping for air, he thought he had enough time for one more thrust before pulling out but instead shot off inside Sherlock.

"Oh my God. Sorry. I thought I had more time."

"Oh shut up John, and get down here." Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and yanked him down onto the sweaty, stained sheets.

"It was better than a case."

"Was it really?" John sneered sarcastically.

Sherlock peeled his eyes open and stared directly at John. "It was." He closed his eyes again and rolled his head to the other side and muttered, "It was also better than drugs."

"What was that? I couldn't quite here you."

"Oh shut up, you heard me." Sherlock backed up into John, which John took as a way of saying 'let's spoon'. "So what are you going to title this one?"

"Hmm that's a good question. I thought you hated the titles."

"I'm curious to see what you came up with."

"The Commando Situation? The Elephant in the Room? The Case of the Detective with unbearable innuendo skills?"

"They're all awful." Sherlock backed farther into John, who put his arm around him and pulled him in. "How's your leg?" Sherlock whispered.

"Damn my leg." John leaned over and gently kissed Sherlock's neck before dropping to the pillow and falling asleep.

 **-Fin-**


End file.
